The Master of the Ceremonies

“You can go now,” he said.

“Not stay with my master, sir?”

“I said go, fellow,” cried Sir Harry sharply; and, in spite of his jaunty manner, he looked cold and pale.

“Back, Sir Harry?”

“No – anywhere. There, up the cliff. Be within call.”

The man saluted, turned on his heel, and, walking to where a roughly-cut path of steps led up the cliff into the little ravine, began to mount as quickly as he could.

About half-way up he turned, saw that he was out of sight, and then, following Fisherman Dick’s steps as if he were familiar with the way, climbed right into the rough cavern, and came suddenly upon the man, who started round in surprise.

“Hullo!” he growled. “What are you doing here?”

“Same to you,” said the young dragoon, in a low voice. “What are you going to do?”

“See the fight, if you must know,” said Fisherman Dick. “Like my place, p’raps.”

“Yes,” said the young soldier quickly, “I should;” and, stepping forward, he looked down cautiously on the group below.

“Why, it’s Fred Denville, surely,” cried Fisherman Dick.

“Hush, man!” said the young soldier, catching him by the arm; “James Bell now. Not a word to a soul about me.”

“What, not to your young brother, Master Fred?”

“Hist! I’m only a common soldier now, Dick. You won’t betray me, I know.”

“Not I, lad. Troost me.”

“I will, Dick, with my name, and – ”

He placed his lips close to the fisherman’s ear, and whispered.

Fisherman Dick brought a broad hand down softly on his knee, and laughed a silent laugh. But the next moment he turned preternaturally solemn, and whispered:

“It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Fair!” whispered back Fred: “is it fair for that poor fellow to stand and be shot down by a man who can snuff a candle at a dozen paces? I’ve seen him do it.”

“I’ve done, my lad, and you’re safe with me. I’m closer as you used to know.”

Meanwhile the preparations had been going on below, and were so far advanced that the preliminaries had been all settled, the pistols charged, the ground stepped out, and the men were standing back to back, twelve paces apart.

Rockley was deadly pale, but not with the pallor of fear, as he stood exactly below the hollow where the two men were looking down. There was a savage look of rage in his eyes, and his lip was white where he pressed his teeth upon it firmly, longing the while to receive the weapon that was to be the minister of his vengeance upon the man he hated with an intense and ardent hate.

The doctor had drawn aside, walking down towards the sea, and the two seconds were together, every step in the progress of the drama being taken with a cold formality that was awful.

At last the seconds parted, each bearing one of the loaded weapons, and walking firmly towards his principal.

“Here you are, Rockley,” said Sir Harry, in a voice that was husky, and not quite firm. “You’ll wing him, won’t you, or give him a ball through one of his legs?”

“If I can shoot straight,” said Rockley coldly – “and my arm is pretty firm this morning – there shall be a funeral in Saltinville next Sunday.”

“No, no. Gad, man, don’t do that. Think of yourself if you killed him.”

“I could get over it,” was the reply. “The Prince would help me; and if he wouldn’t – curse that Linnell, I’d sacrifice anything to pay him back his debt.”

“Yes, you’re firm enough, Dick. Mind: as Payne gives the word, raise your pistol and fire at once. You will not hit him, but the quick flash will spoil his aim. I will not consent to another shot. If he wants another it shall be at me. Now then; you understand?”

“Yes,” said Linnell firmly, “I understand, Mellersh. I shall not fire at him. If I fall – badly hit – tell Claire Denville I sent her my dear love.”

“Be firm, man. You will not fall,” said the Colonel, pressing his hand. Then, glancing at Sir Harry Payne, who was waiting, he walked away towards a certain prearranged point, where he and Sir Harry stood together in the grey morning light; while, back to back, there were the principals, each grasping his heavy duelling pistol, with the chalk cliff towering above, and, fifty yards away, the waves uttering their low, whispering sound.

Just then a couple of gulls floated by, grey and ghostly in the dull mist, uttering their faint and peevish cry, and a few drops of rain began to fall.

“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said Sir Harry Payne hoarsely.

No one spoke, but the principals bowed their heads.

“When I say ‘three,’” said Sir Harry, “you will turn round and fire. One—two– three!”

As the last word left Sir Harry Payne’s lips, the principals turned quickly round, and almost simultaneously came two sharp echoing reports following the faint puffs of smoke that shrouded the duellists for the moment.

Then, as the seconds were starting forward, Mellersh saw that Rockley was looking up at the face of the cliff. Then he looked down at Richard Linnell, who, as the shots were fired, twisted himself sharply round, dropping his pistol, and now stood with one hand pressed to his temple.

Mellersh saw a curious smile on Rockley’s face, and a hoarse gasp came from his throat.

“It is my fate to shoot another man – dead!” he muttered; and he was just in time to catch Richard Linnell as he reeled and was about to fall.

The doctor was coming up quickly, and Sir Harry had run to his principal.

“You’ve killed him,” he whispered.

“I hope so,” was the cool reply. “I’m not sure, though. That cursed piece of chalk fell from the cliff as I fired, and spoiled my aim. Go and see where he is hurt.”

As Sir Harry ran off, Rockley stooped and picked up a piece of chalk rock as big as his fist, and then threw it down, dusting his hand afterwards, and then removing the mark of the chalk where it had struck him upon his right shoulder.

“Pah!” he exclaimed, pressing his handkerchief to his lip, which was cut; “the thing bounced up. I hope it has not saved Mr Richard Linnell’s life.”

Judging from appearances it had not, for Richard Linnell lay upon the sand with his eyes half closed, and the blood trickling from a wound over the right temple, just where the hair began to grow.

“Is he much hurt?” whispered Sir Harry.

“Don’t know yet,” said the doctor sharply, as he examined the fallen man. “Not Rockley’s fault if he is not.”

“He’s a perfect devil,” muttered Sir Harry, as, looking very white, he gazed from one to the other, while the Major slowly walked down towards the sea and back.